


bounded in a nutshell

by Shinybug



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dreams, Existential Crisis, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 10:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: In which Crowley’s nightmares bring him to Aziraphale’s door, and his existential crisis brings him to Aziraphale’s bed.





	bounded in a nutshell

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.  
~Hamlet, Act 2 Scene 2

~*~

In more emotionally stable moments, what perplexes Crowley is that demons aren't supposed to dream. He's certainly never dreamed before, never knew of a demon who did. Dreams are for mortals, for those whose brains can only comprehend so much, that every night they have to have a bit of a lie down to let the subconscious process and reset itself. 

Crowley can comprehend a great deal more than that; his hands had helped form the very stars after all, he has seen the birth of worlds, the beginning of time, both the glory of Heaven and the desolation of Hell. Still, he has never dreamed, and shouldn't need to.

As it is, he shouldn't even need to sleep. (He does enjoy a good nap in the sun, or under an electric blanket in the winter. And there was that one notable time when he went to sleep in 1804 and woke up in 1862 with an Idea, but then almost immediately went back to sleep for another twenty years in an unrighteous snit. He doesn't like to think about that too hard because what echoes in his memory is "fraternizing.") But since the apocalypse that wasn't, he's suffering a new and unwelcome development: he now finds sleep not pleasurable but necessary, and when he sleeps it is under the veil of dreams. 

He doesn’t want to bother Aziraphale about it, and he tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to worry his friend but in reality it’s something closer to cowardice. Crowley doesn’t like exposing his soft underbelly to anyone, or even acknowledging that he has one at all. No sense in embarrassing himself with talk of feelings when it’s so much easier just to continue as before. So he keeps mum, and things get worse. His exhaustion becomes palpable, his days begin to suffer.

The whole world has a newborn glow about it, a luster of fragile hope, shining like a new penny. Crowley sees it, but he can’t quite feel it. He isn’t sure if that means it isn’t real, or if maybe he isn’t real. He definitely knows he needs sleep.

Life should be good.

Except.

Crowley dreams.

~*~

The night after the body swap is the first time it happens. Crowley feels he's more than earned a few hours nap, but wakes after midnight gasping and tearing at his sheets, holy water sizzling on his skin. He lays in his bed baffled, blinking up at the cement gray ceiling, wondering what the hell had just happened. He stares at his phone for fifteen minutes, the call screen lit up with Aziraphale’s name, just waiting for him to press send. 

The next night he is falling, an infinite dive headfirst through black atmosphere, blind as the moment before Light was created. He can feel his feathers dissolving in a sulfurous wind, and he screams into his pillow as he braces for an impact that could come at any moment. 

His hand shakes as he fumbles on his bedside table for his phone. Aziraphale answers before Crowley has even caught his breath. 

"Crowley! What excellent timing, my dear, I was just thinking of that darling cafe we tried last year. I thought we'd give them another go, their scones were very nearly perfect if I recall." 

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, just shy of a grunt. His heart is still hammering, part of his mind still falling. 

"But here I am nattering on. What was it you wanted? It's nearly 3am, I would have expected you to be sleeping." 

"You're not asleep," Crowley points out, staring at his hands and willing them not to shake, cradling the phone between his ear and the pillow. 

"Yes, but you know I never sleep, old boy."

"Just bored. Tell me about your day." 

There is a considering pause. "Well, since you and I had dinner a few hours ago, I haven't had time to do much more than reorganize my collection of Shakespeare's folios, but I did come across a few early pages of Hamlet's scene with those hapless fellows, you know the one I mean. And yes, I know you dislike the 'gloomy ones' but I still do find it delightful and I'll always be grateful for your kindness--"

Crowley snarls, kindly, and Aziraphale laughs.

The next morning they go for scones. 

The next night Crowley wakes weeping as nebulae and stars slip through his fingers, the constellations he so carefully, lovingly stretched across the universe exploding into a muddled mess, watercolors mixing to sludge. 

Aziraphale sounds surprised at the second late night call, but is as always graciously accommodating, talking Crowley down from his metaphorical ledge by not saying anything of importance at all, and carefully ignoring the occasional shaky breath on the other end of the phone. 

The fourth night he is wandering a vast desert littered with bones that crunch under his bare feet, and his wings drag behind him making patterns over the sand. He is alone. 

Aziraphale says, "Why don't you come over, dear. I've already put the kettle on." 

Crowley scrubs a hand over his face and grips the phone tighter. "Good night, angel." 

The fifth day Crowley gives up entirely on the idea of sleeping, and spends the night gently misting and viciously berating his plants. He is so very, very tired. He does not call Aziraphale, but he has a (possibly wishful) sense that Aziraphale is waiting by the phone anyway. 

The sixth night it is raining in Soho, a steady drenching rain at 2am that soaks Crowley to the bone as he stands outside the bookshop, hands in pockets, dithering. Aziraphale opens the door even though Crowley never knocked, tuts at him and bustles him inside. 

Crowley stands shivering, dripping all over the entry, until Aziraphale says, "Oh, honestly," and miracles him dry and warm. Crowley sags like a dropped marionette. 

Aziraphale offers him tea but trades it for wine at Crowley's pointed look. They drink quietly together on the sofa for a while, Aziraphale very loudly not asking and Crowley very firmly not answering. Finally after two glasses Aziraphale clears his throat. 

“My dear,” he begins hesitantly, “I do wish you would tell me what is troubling you. You’ve not been yourself.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley argues, somewhat ineffectively as his words are interrupted by a yawn. “Just a bit tired. My bed remains stubbornly hard no matter what sort of threats I throw at it.” He tries to make a joke of it but his voice falls flat.

Aziraphale gives him a narrow look. “I don’t know if I entirely believe you."

“This was a mistake, I should just be getting home,” Crowley says, hearing the reluctance all too clearly in his own voice. He drains his glass and wishes he wasn't such a coward. 

"Crowley, stop," Aziraphale says, placing his hand over Crowley's where it rests on the couch between them. "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me, but please stay. It's been a long week, truly, and I'd be glad of the company." 

Crowley's hand feels the warmth long after Aziraphale lets go, and he allows his glass to be refilled, grateful for the excuse to stay. All that waits for him at his flat is gray concrete and silence, terrified houseplants, and the likelihood of nightmares. 

"It does feel a bit like waiting for the other shoe," Crowley says softly, running his thumb along the rim of his glass, staining his skin pink. 

"Mmm," Aziraphale agrees. "Especially when we're not sure all the feet are properly accounted for." 

Crowley snorts and takes another sip of a red wine that had until very recently been an absolutely unremarkable vintage, but which now is surprised to find itself itself a credible merlot with just a hint of chocolate. It warms him like the sun. 

"1737, was it? France?" 

"1739, actually. Ravenna. You're slipping, dear." Aziraphale sounded amused. 

"I had the century right, at least."

Silence slips between them again, and Crowley wonders how it is that their silences have always been just as eloquent as their conversation. 

“You know...you could always just stay here at mine,” Aziraphale offers slowly. His cheeks are tinged faintly pink. “I have a lovely guest room upstairs.”

Crowley tilts his head and squints. “I’m almost certain you don’t.”

“Well. I do now,” he replies primly, and Crowley’s heart thumps.

It's impossible to turn him down, Crowley reasons, feeling a measure of relief, since Aziraphale has miracled an entire room for him. And perhaps the change of atmosphere would do him some good. His plants don't make for very reassuring company, after all.

“I think I will, just the once. I’ve indulged too much anyway.” He sprawls a little further down the sofa, kicking his legs out and enjoying the smooth haze.

“As have I,” Aziraphale admits with a private smile, as though revealing a secret. Neither of them acknowledge that they could sober up easily at any moment.

“Well, since I’m not leaving, there’s no harm in having another, is there?”

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale, topping off Crowley’s wine.

The idea, of course, is that Crowley might sleep better with a good dose of alcohol, and it might drown out the dreams. The unintended side effect is that Crowley is unable to ignore the warm feeling in his chest when he looks at Aziraphale, and since the angel is the only other person in the room, it’s hard not to look at him. His skin is pale gold in the low light, his hair like a halo, and he glows softly against the backdrop of the darkened bookshop, the jewel tones on the spines of old books. 

Crowley has known his own feelings since somewhere around the oysters incident, involving the suggestive nature of togas, the way they wrapped and shifted on a body. Aziraphale's body specifically. But more than that, it was the first time they met as friends instead of adversaries baiting each other. Crowley had looked at Aziraphale and saw a being who really cared about the world he was part of. He was a kindred spirit, regardless of the nature of their respective divinities. Recalling that episode, and his decision not to act upon his feelings then or any time thereafter, he tries to suppress a sigh and mostly fails. Damn the wine.

Aziraphale, slumped low on the couch with his wine glass resting on his lap, rolls his head to look at Crowley. "What a maudlin sound, my dear. What are you thinking of?" 

"I was just remembering Rome…for no reason at all." 

"Ah! Those oysters," Aziraphale says, making a pleased noise in his throat. "I've never had better, in all these years." 

Crowley smiles and lets Aziraphale think that his sigh of longing was for magnificent shellfish and not his angelic self. He's never approved of pining, either in general or specifically in himself, though he admits to his shame that he's done a fair bit of pining in his life. In the best of times he prefers to limit himself to the occasional lingering thought, but it does become more difficult the more he has had to drink and the more time he's spent with Aziraphale. When the two combine, as they so often do, Crowley knows he'll be in for a hard time, but he's powerless to stay away. 

But now, so soon after the almost-end-of-all-things, he drinks up the sight of his friend and thanks Somebody, Anybody, for the ability to simply sit here in this room with Aziraphale and talk, or not talk. Drink or not drink. Save the world or make a dinner reservation. Crowley doesn’t much care what they do, as long as they can do it together.

But Aziraphale is still watching him with that canny stare, so at odds with his usual softness, his vaguely pleasant affectation. Even Crowley forgets sometimes that Aziraphale’s mind is as sharp as a sword, that he remembers everything, that he surely has catalogued Crowley’s every facet into some kind of ineffable filing system in his head. It is terrifying to be so seen.

Crowley clears his throat and sets down his wine glass. "I’m done for,” he says, getting to his feet and stretching, swaying only slightly from either alcohol or exhaustion. After an oddly static moment, Aziraphale joins him. Crowley tries for nonchalance as he sweeps his hand toward the stairs. “Let’s see if we can find this lovely guest room of yours.”

Aziraphale leads the way up the stairs and down the narrow hall to a door that definitely hadn’t been there before. It opens to a room that is quite lovely indeed, mahogany and garnet and glimmers of gold. There is a plush rug that Crowley wants to sink his toes into, and a four poster bed that looks far more inviting than his own ever did.

“Will this do?” Aziraphale asks, slightly breathless as he waits for approval.

“It’ll do well enough.” This is an understatement, but Crowley is not good at compliments or thanks, and Aziraphale knows this so his mouth purses on a tiny, pleased smile.

“Good. I’ll just be down the hall, should you need me,” Aziraphale assures him, leaning his head toward his own bedroom door.

“I didn’t think you ever slept,” Crowley says, surprised.

“Oh I don’t, I don’t even have a bed in my room,” replies Aziraphale, “but I’ve recently acquired a book from the 18th century that I had a hand in writing, and I can read it up here as well as I can downstairs. I shouldn’t like you to be alone.”

“I’m not a child,” Crowley growls somewhat petulantly, spoiling the effect.

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley’s arm.

Crowley feels the touch all the way to his toes. He always feels that Aziraphale either touches him too much, or not enough, and the quandary vexes him. Tonight he’s leaning toward ‘not enough,’ but he knows he’s not thinking too clearly so he just soaks up the tiny trail of warmth and holds onto it.

“Good night, angel.”

“Good night, demon.”

Crowley’s lips twitch but he refuses to smile. After the door closes behind him he leans his back against it and listens to the sound of Aziraphale’s footsteps retreating down the hall. He takes off his glasses and carefully folds them.

Crowley, for all that he adores sleep, does not own pyjamas, otherwise it might occur to him to miracle some up for himself. He is surprised to find that Aziraphale has provided him with a set of soft trousers and henley shirt, folded on the chair beside the bed, and he rolls his eyes at the tartan trim. Still, it's incredibly thoughtful. They are a perfect fit, naturally. 

The bed is both soft and firm, and Crowley burrows under the blankets gratefully, not having realized until just now that he is cold. He tucks a pillow under his head and turns on his side, watching the rain slide down the windowpane, illuminated by a streetlamp below. He thinks of Aziraphale, just down the hall, and he does not feel alone.

The sound of the rain is soothing, a white noise lulling him to stillness. Some time later he realizes as he drifts, that though he is resting, the alcohol is dissipating and sleep still eludes him. Frustrated, he rolls onto his back, thinking again of Aziraphale and his 18th century book down the hall. He supposes that Aziraphale would not mind if Crowley came to join him, to listen to him read aloud in his softly modulated, scholarly voice.

Presently he hears something odd, the sound of running feet past his door. Alarmed, Crowley flips back the blankets and leaps from the bed. “Aziraphale?” he calls as he yanks the door open and enters the hall, expecting to see his friend, but there are already the quick staccato thumps of Aziraphale running down the stairs, and then a sharp cry.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls out, already racing down the stairs. It’s then that the smell hits him, sulfur and smoke. The heat blasts against his face as he hits the ground floor, and he sees flames licking around the corners of the walls and furniture. In the main shop the shelves are engulfed and the haphazard stacks of books are starting to topple. Not again, he thinks, fighting panic.

If it wasn’t for the smell of sulfur he’d think it was some kind of accident, but his blood runs cold as he looks for and finds Hastur, laughing near the front door. 

At first he doesn’t see Aziraphale, but then he comes around a display table and finds Aziraphale on his knees, writhing and begging. There are sigils on the floor around his body and Crowley recognizes them as a binding curse. Aziraphale won’t be able to move.

“Stop this, Hastur!” Crowley cries above the roar of the fire. “Take me, I know that’s what you really want!”

Aziraphale whips his head around to look at Crowley, and there are tears on his cheeks. The hellfire is getting closer.

“I already have what I want,” Hastur replies, his rotting face alive with satisfaction. “I know what you did, making fools of us all. Now you get to watch me destroy what you desire most.”

Crowley takes a step forward at a run and is violently jolted back, and as he staggers he sees the same sigils on the floor around his feet, glowing as red as hellfire. He understands now what will happen. “Aziraphale!” he cries out, meeting his eyes and holding the gaze, ignoring Hastur. “Angel, it’s gonna be okay, I’ll get you out.”

He drops to his knees and presses his hands on the nearest sigil, concentrating with all his might to dissolve the circle. Nothing happens. He tries again on a different sigil, and feels no familiar rush of demonic power. He is as trapped as Aziraphale, except the hellfire won’t hurt him. It will be fatal for Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sobs, reaching out a hand toward him and pressing against the barrier as though trapped behind glass.

“You’re too human now, Crowley,” Hastur says gleefully as the ceiling begins to crack and tumble down around them. Sparks of hellfire are falling on Crowley’s head. 

“I can’t be--you’re lying,” Crowley says, stunned. 

Hastur is laughing. “What did you expect to happen? Consorting with an angel.” He spits out the word as though it is foul.

Crowley knows it’s almost over. The room is red and sulfurous yellow and shadows of black. He is helpless.

“Angel,” he says, and Aziraphale looks at him, struggling to move. “I love you.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams as hellfire rains down on him. “Crowley!”

Crowley slams himself against the barrier again, as Hastur laughs and laughs.

“Crowley! Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale says, gripping his arms, and Crowley sucks in a huge breath and thrashes, slamming Aziraphale into the bed and pinning him with a forearm against his throat.

Slowly he focuses on Aziraphale’s face below him, his blue eyes kind and unafraid even as he gasps for breath. As though moving underwater Crowley lifts his arm and rolls to the side, tangled and trapped in the blankets. Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Oh, my dear,” he says softly, rasping just a bit. He reaches out for Crowley’s hand and Crowley twitches away, looking at the rain on the window, his heart still hammering. He can feel his fingers shaking and he balls them into fists.

“You should have told me,” Aziraphale says without reproach. “That this is why you can’t sleep.”

“I thought maybe, if I slept here…” He is drenched in sweat and beginning to shiver.

Aziraphale sits up and puts his own pyjamas to rights. They are hopelessly in fashion for the 19th century, and Crowley’s throat aches at how very dear Aziraphale looks, how comforting. His dream is so fresh, he still scans the room for hellfire.

"Are you--are you real?" 

Aziraphale's face crumples. "I promise you, I am real and you are awake." He grabs Crowley's hand firmly and doesn't let go, even when Crowley tries half-heartedly to shake him off. 

"Do you dream? When you actually sleep, I mean?" Crowley asks after a minute of silence. Aziraphale’s touch is an anchor holding him there. He imagines he can feel the whorls of fingertips pressing against his feverish hand.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Sometimes I wake with a pleasant feeling, the way I feel when I open a new book for the first time, or have a sip of wine that recalls a beautiful memory. I don’t believe I have ever dreamed the way you are experiencing it. Have you been dreaming every night?" 

Crowley tries to sit up but after some struggle with the blankets decides it isn't worth it. He stretches out next to Aziraphale, staring at the silk covered thigh next to his face. He tucks their joined hands beneath his chin.

"Every night since...since. I never did before. Well, maybe once during that long nap I had, I do remember something about eating crepes with you. Lots and lots of crepes." 

"I believe if I were to dream, I would choose to dream about meals I have taken with you." Aziraphale's voice above him is infinitely warm, rich with fondness, and it feels like a benediction when he runs his fingers through Crowley's hair.

Crowley has to close his eyes momentarily and take that in. "I'm not dreaming of crepes now." 

"No, I rather had that impression." He squeezes Crowley's hand. 

"Aziraphale, the thing is. I don't feel safe." The word is forced out around the ache in his throat. "The way we've left things, between Up and Down, I mean." 

"Well, I don't suppose there are ever any guarantees, my dear. But I think we've earned some time, and I intend not to waste it. Worrying is like paying interest on a debt you may not owe." 

Crowley turns his face into the cool sheets, trying to put voice to his fears. "I've already Fallen. I don't want to go back Down, and they won't let me go back Up. Neither side wants me, but I know better than to expect no retribution at all from what we did. I worry because I know they’ll come for us someday." 

“Crowley--”

"I dream I'm alone,” he interrupts, forcefully. “Whenever I close my eyes, that's what I feel. And God help me, I don't want to be alone. Even if that means I drag you down with me. I don’t think I’m strong enough anymore to keep you at a safe distance." 

His cheeks burn with shame and he buries his face against Aziraphale's thigh. 

"Crowley, sit up. Come here.”

He sits up but can’t be still, and he launches off the bed with none of his usual loose-hipped grace. He paces the small bedroom like a cage. “You don’t understand, angel. I dreamed I couldn't save you. I dreamed I’d become so human, so caught in Limbo, that I was powerless to protect you from my mistakes. The price Hell made me pay was you, Aziraphale." 

The angel is silent for a long time, his mouth pursed. Crowley stops in front of the window and braces himself on the casement, looking at the watery world below.

"Crowley, my dearest friend, you taught me that our side is the only one that matters. You and me. Whatever happens, you won't be alone. Believe me when I say that I would never Rise or Fall without you. I have as much free will as any of Her creatures, and I choose to hitch my wagon to your star, if you'll pardon the expression." 

“You’re a fool,” Crowley whispers.

“I’m your fool,” he replies, and Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. He sounds closer, approaching slowly. “I love you, too, in case you were wondering.”

Crowley stiffens but can’t bring himself to turn around. “How--I never said--”

“You’ve been saying for years, my darling. I just wasn’t ready to hear it. You told me in a bombed church. You told me in a French jail cell. You told me with Alpha Centauri. You’ve told me every day for centuries.”

Crowley rests his forehead against the cold window pane.

“And if that wasn’t enough, Crowley, you talk in your sleep. And I love you too.” Aziraphale touches the nape of his neck and Crowley leans back into the touch helplessly. The angel’s fingertips are warm and gentle, sliding up into his hair and cradling his skull.

“You shouldn’t,” Crowley says, and his voice shakes. Even he isn’t sure if he means the touch or the love, or if both aren’t really the same thing after all.

“I shall, because of the aforementioned free will. And I think you don’t truly wish me to stop, do you?”

Crowley was silent for a long time, while Aziraphale waited patiently. Crowley couldn’t understand how he could be so serene, given the circumstances, but he could also tell that Aziraphale meant every word.

He considered carefully, and realized that he was just selfish enough to want Aziraphale despite the potential for utter ruin. He would be fooling himself if he thought otherwise. Aziraphale is the closest thing to home he’s ever felt. He can’t touch Heaven but he can touch Aziraphale, and he wants that even more.

“No, I don’t want you to stop,” Crowley whispers almost to quietly to hear.

Aziraphale rests his chin so gently on Crowley’s shoulder and breathes in, and he gives a tiny moan on the exhale. Crowley has no breath left for sound. He just trembles. He feels a kiss on his nape, then where his neck and shoulder meet, and then on his cheek over his tattoo.

Crowley thinks he might discorporate from the anticipation, which is the sharpest, most exquisite thing he’s ever felt. When Aziraphale finally presses his body in close enough for Crowley to feel all down his back, warm as the sun, Crowley spins around and kisses him, fingers hooked on Aziraphale’s jaw as though he might try to get away. Aziraphale makes a pleased sound and opens his mouth to Crowley eagerly, as though he’s already done it a thousand times before.

Aziraphale kisses the way Riesling tastes: sweet and biting, gently welcoming with a heady undercurrent. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, and it comes out as a feather-touch of breath against Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale shudders against him, clutching at Crowley’s hips.

“Do you know, every time you’ve ever said ‘angel’ to me, I’ve imagined that you meant it just this way,” Aziraphale says tremulously, tipping his head back for Crowley’s lips on his neck.

“Every time I said it, I was saying ‘I love you.’” Crowley is shocked at hearing his own voice say it, but it is no less true.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasps, pulling Crowley’s head back up for another kiss. “You are perfect, my dear, better than I have ever dreamed.”

Crowley stills, resting his lips against Aziraphale’s. “Nobody’s perfect, angel. Certainly not me.”

“Well, you’re perfect for me, then,” Aziraphale says, smiling.

“I’ll take that,” Crowley replies, his heart thumping painfully.

Aziraphale kisses him again, more forcefully this time, tongue and teeth, and Crowley feels it throughout his whole body, rushing fire singing in his blood.

"Bed, I think. I’m having a little problem standing upright at the moment," Aziraphale says breathlessly, clinging to Crowley’s shoulders in the most pleasing way. 

Crowley makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "That's the best idea you've ever had." 

"Better than swapping bodies to fool both Heaven and Hell?" 

"This is the second best idea you've ever had," Crowley says as he gently pushes and then follows Aziraphale up onto the bed, straddling his hips and pinning him down. Through the silk shirt his hands map all the rounded curves and smooth lines of Aziraphale's body, learning the sensitive spots that make him moan. 

He tries the mother of pearl buttons on Aziraphale's pyjamas and his trembling fingers get tangled in the fine silk. Aziraphale huffs impatiently and yanks on the two halves, popping buttons that fly and click on the floor. Crowley gapes at him, having never imagined he would mistreat his own wardrobe like that. 

"You could just have miracled your clothes off." 

"Yes, but this way is much, much better," he replies, taking Crowley's hands and sliding them beneath the torn silk, and Crowley groans and closes his eyes at the feel of his skin, softer than the silk. 

"You're full of good ideas," Crowley mumbles, stripping his own shirt over his head and rocking his own slim hips against Aziraphale's and catching on the hardness that matches his own. 

"You've made quite an Effort," Crowley whispers, his eyes closing involuntarily at the slow burn that starts in his cock and spreads throughout his body, leaving him breathless.

"Did I do it right?" 

"Angel, it's a magnificent Effort, don't change a thing." 

It’s all happening so fast that Crowley feels dizzy with desire, a yawning emptiness that needs to be filled. He stills his motions, suddenly getting a flash of a barren desert, darkness and bones under his feet, wings leaving trails behind him, and a loneliness so vast and hollow that he doubles over, bracing his hands on Aziraphale’s chest. He opens his eyes and Aziraphale is watching him patiently.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Crowley, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m here, and you’re not alone.”

He doesn’t know how Aziraphale could guess what he was thinking, but he figures he’s about as transparent and fragile as a spider’s web right now. Part of him is ashamed, and another part is basking in the knowledge that Aziraphale knows him so very well that he doesn’t need to explain.

“Angel, I need you to, I need,” he stutters, kissing Aziraphale’s mouth again and again.

"Anything, what do you need? Tell me, tell me," Aziraphale whispers, his tongue darting out to meet Crowley's flickering kisses. 

Crowley pulls away, panting. He presses his forehead against Aziraphale's shoulder, breathing in old books and chocolate. He licks Aziraphale's neck, chasing the scent and flavor. 

“Fill me up, angel. Let me feel you inside.”

Aziraphale makes a wheezing noise and bucks up his hips into Crowley. “I admit, that’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for. Will you sit up a moment, my dear?”

Crowley moves off to one side while Aziraphale shimmies out of his silk pyjamas. Crowley just magics off his own trousers and stares at Aziraphale’s pale skin glowing in the low lamplight, trailing with just his fingertips along the smooth curve of the angel’s thighs, unwilling to break the connection.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at Crowley, watching his trousers disappear. “A bit eager, are we?”

“Couldn’t wait anymore.” He sounds rough to his own ears.

“Up or down?” Aziraphale asks, gesturing rather vaguely at the two of them and the bed.

“Up,” Crowley says, dropping his hand to his cock and pumping a few times, thrilling at the sharp pleasure. He doesn’t often acknowledge his own desire, because he never really saw the point. Aziraphale was the only one who ever made his blood sing, and until now he was utterly out of Crowley’s reach. Apparently it took facing the end of everything to convince Aziraphale that they were both on the same side in more ways than one.

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, and his face is transcendent, the same as when he is presented with a five course meal at the Ritz. “First come here, my darling.”

He lays down as instructed and Aziraphale leans over him, sipping at his mouth like it’s the most exquisite wine he’s ever tasted. When he pulls back Crowley tries to chase him, but Aziraphale puts a hand on his chest and keeps him pinned, moving down to suck kisses along Crowley’s slim chest and stomach, biting at his sharp hips, and taking Crowley’s cock into his mouth without ceremony or warning.

Crowley shouts in surprise, wordless and louder than he meant to, sliding his hands into Aziraphale’s spun sugar curls, feeling the glow of the angel’s divinity in his fingertips. Aziraphale hums and leans into the touch, his mouth wetly sliding up and down, never breaking contact. His fingers grip Crowley’s hips, finding the hollows of them and holding them like anchors.

Then Aziraphale slides his fingers, suddenly slick and warm, back to circle Crowley’s hole, and Crowley feels the current of energy from a minor miracle, opening him up faster than fingers ever could, and Crowley flings back his head, arching.

“God,” he moans, and the word stings his mouth.

Aziraphale pulls off his cock, his fingers pressing in with no resistance, twisting and curling, and Crowley feels tears in his eyes threatening to spill. This is such a human thing, this physical dance, and he suddenly realizes something that hadn’t occurred to him before. This doesn’t carry just a threat of Heaven’s chastisement, it could be much, much worse.

“Will you Fall? I can’t do this if it means you’ll Fall,” Crowley whispers, torn between pleasure and anxious pain.

“My love, how could this be wrong?” Aziraphale sounds so calm, so certain, that Crowley has to accept his answer, because the alternative would be to stop and Crowley thinks that might truly discorporate him at this point.

“Come here,” Aziraphale instructs gently, lying back on the bed and watching Crowley with a serene expression as he carefully climbs onto Aziraphale’s lap. He lines himself up and lowers slowly, stretching with the most perfect burn he could ever have hoped for.

Aziraphale’s tranquil countenance finally breaks, and he begins to shake beneath Crowley, clearly trying not to thrust up yet. The tension is building higher and higher inside Crowley as he seats himself fully, and he growls, “C’mon, don’t go easy. Make me feel it.”

Probably involuntarily, Aziraphale groans and lifts his hips, and Crowley braces his hands on Aziraphale’s chest and hangs on. They find a rough rhythm, colliding and rebounding, and Crowley has never felt so full, so connected to another.

“Is it good?” Aziraphale asks, panting, sweat sheening his brow.

Crowley grunts. “It’s good, angel, it’s so good.” It’s more than good, it’s sublime, it’s overwhelmingly transcendent, but Crowley can’t say any of that out loud. His words die in his throat; he can only dig his fingers into Aziraphale’s shoulders and gasp for air, wishing he could tell Aziraphale what he’s feeling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and he can hear the love in his voice, the wonder. “My beautiful demon.”

He feels Aziraphale swell within him and Crowley’s eyes go wide, his hips stutter in their rhythm. “Azzssiraphale,” he hisses, unable to stop himself.

He feels Aziraphale pulse within him and he moans, coming in waves that rush and then recede, rush and recede.

Crowley barely registers Aziraphale pulling out and using a miracle to whisk away their wonderful mess. He tugs Crowley to the side of him and Crowley has enough presence of mind to put his head on Aziraphale’s chest and breathe, hooking one leg over Aziraphale’s, still feeling the waves ebbing gently.

He wants to cry but he has no tears.

“Are you alright, love?” Aziraphale asks quietly, stroking Crowley’s hand where it rests on his stomach.

Crowley has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “You know I’m not good at this stuff.”

“What, talking?” Aziraphale sounds amused.

“Feelings,” Crowley growls.

“I’m not asking you to write me a sonnet, just tell me if it was good. If it was what you needed.”

“It was as close to rapture as I’ll ever get,” Crowley finally whispers. “I need it.”

Aziraphale pulls him in closer and kisses his forehead. “Oh, my dear.”

“What about you?” Crowley asks, suddenly worried that Aziraphale had only done all this to please him.

“I am neither Risen nor Fallen now, though I have tasted the most exquisite apple. I am exactly where I want to be. With you, Crowley.”

Crowley smiles. “Am I the apple in this scenario?”

“You are the best apple I’ve ever eaten.”

Crowley considers that for a moment. “That’s both flattering and strange.”

“We’re both a little strange, don’t you think?”

“I suppose you’re right. We can make our own rules now,” Crowley points out. “Or make no rules at all.”

Aziraphale sighs contentedly.

They both drift quietly, near sleep, until Aziraphale asks, “Do you still feel alone?”

“I don’t think I will ever feel alone again,” Crowley answers honestly, pressing his fingertips gently into Aziraphale’s skin, thinking how close they are, how intertwined.

“You never were,” Aziraphale replies.

After a long silence Crowley says, “Maybe now I won’t dream.”

“Maybe now you’ll only dream of crepes.”

Crowley smiles, just a little bit wickedly. “I wouldn’t mind dreaming of you eating crepes. You eating anything, for that matter.”

“That sounds rather inappropriate somehow.”

“I meant it that way.”

“Oh my,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley marvels at the fact that he can still sound scandalized after all they’ve already done.

Still, something bothers Crowley, a tickle that has been in the back of his mind for a long time. “Only humans are supposed to dream. Do you think I’ve been dreaming because I’m too human? Not ethereal or occult enough anymore to be either Fallen or Risen?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I think you’re perfect, no matter which direction you go. And if you stay right here, I’ll stay here too. It makes no difference to me. Home is not a place, or even a plane of existence, Crowley.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, and means ‘I love you.’

~*~

When Crowley finally gives in to sleep, he finds himself in a garden. There are no apple trees and no nightingales, (and no crepes), but Aziraphale is there. They are sitting on an iron bench, with just enough room between them to rest their hands. Aziraphale reaches out, and Crowley meets him in the middle.


End file.
